


Feel About the Same Most Every Day

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 2.  Sam doesn't know that Dean wants to touch him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel About the Same Most Every Day

Sam doesn’t know that Dean wants to touch him. 

And Sam has no idea that all Dean has to do is throw an arm up over the back of the seat. He could do it, too. Nothing weird about resting an arm on the bench seat during a drive. A man’s gotta stretch out, after all. Dean could reach over, no pressure at first, and span his palm over the sun-heated leather and ridged stitching of the passenger seat. He wouldn’t even take his eyes off the road. “No big, Sammy. Just getting out the kinks. You try driving for twelve straight hours.”  

He’d wait. He’d wait until Sam had gotten used to the warmth of his thumb—not touching, not quite—along the back of his neck. And the closeness. That little buzz of proximity that would spike his heart rate and tingle along his nerves. That tiny promise of skin—maybe, but maybe not—resting just out of reach, but close enough that the electricity would thrum between Dean’s hand and Sam’s neck. Pinballing back and forth, swelling in intensity until Sam’s breath would hitch and he would shift his head back. Not by much. Just the tiniest, most insignificant, little adjustment, so that the back of Dean’s fingers would be brushing the hair at his nape. Barely noticeable.

And Dean would spread his fingers, twirling them through the thick strands of Sam’s ridiculous mop, and gripping them tight. Tugging until Sam was snug up against the side of Dean’s fist and he could feel the warmth and the silk of his brother. And Sam would breathe, and rest the back of his neck against Dean’s wrist. And Dean wouldn’t look away from the road. Two-lane asphalt vanishing under his Baby’s tires. Streaks of yellow flashing down the tar-black of the highway, and Dean would keep the web of his left hand on the wheel and his gaze on the horizon. “Be in Rapid City by noon, don’t ya think?”

Sam would nod, and Dean would slide his hand down to palm the back of his brother’s neck. He’d knead the muscle, getting out the knots, and Sam would groan in pleasure. A contented, comfortable sound, and he’d smile at Dean in thanks. And Dean would wink in return. And he would trail his fingertips across the wide splay of Sam’s upper back. Along the solid curve of his shoulder. Down the swell of his bicep. Dean would trace his fingers over the veins in Sam’s forearm, and then reach over to squeeze the firm length of his brother’s thigh. Sam would sigh, and he’d be happy. And he’d bring up his own hand to cover Dean’s, lacing the fingers—just a little, just like a goddamn girl—and he’d rub his thumb back and forth over the bone of Dean’s wrist. And Dean would glance away from the road to meet his brother’s smiling eyes. 

“Hey, man. You need to stretch out? You’ve been driving pretty much all night.”

Dean casts his gaze over to Sam, edged in gold from the light of the morning sun, and snorts. “Yeah, right.” He cracks his neck and tightens both of the hands he’s got firmly on the wheel. “The day I get sore traveling the I-90 is the day I give you full permission to shove me in a body bag.”

Sam chuckles, and goes back to poring over the case notes spread across his lap.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam doesn’t know that Dean wants to kiss him.  

And Sam doesn’t notice that Dean has decided to maybe do something about it. Because Sam would be grouchy and sullen and not paying attention. He might be too distracted by the wet squelch of his clothing to notice the way that Dean would flicker his eyes down to Sam’s lips. The diner would be warm and dry, but busy, and they’d have to wait at the front until a table got bussed. Sam would be dripping wet from the rain that hasn’t let up for hours. He’d be soaked through to the bone. And he’d sink in on himself and hunch his shoulders up into a grumpy ball until Dean just had to do something to make him feel better. Or maybe it wouldn’t be like that at all. Maybe Sam would be absorbed by the dessert offerings resting under the display glass. He’d browse over the options and laugh when he got to the pie. He’d nudge Dean’s shoulder and point it out and say, “I’ll bet you laundry for a week, you can’t eat a whole one.” And Dean would put on an insulted look until Sam laughed and apologized for doubting him. And Dean would move right in, framing Sam’s face with his hands and pulling him down to gently capture his brother’s lips with his own. Simple and soft and only a few moments long before Sam would pull away with a surprised smile. 

No. Dean would wait. Do it right, when they’d have a bit of privacy. Wait until Sam headed back to the restroom. Dean would give him a sixty second head start before following him. He’d swing into the bathroom, and Sam would give him a confused look for a fraction of a second, and Dean would slam the door behind him. And lock it. Without even looking. Then he’d shove Sam back against the tile so fast his head would spin. And he’d cover his brother’s mouth with his own, smashing their lips together. Sam would freeze for a moment, stunned by everything happening so fast, but then his brain would catch up and he’d surge into the kiss. He’d bring his hand up to cradle the back of Dean’s head and suck at Dean’s bottom lip, tugging and biting. And he’d pull Dean into him, savage and wild, and then part his lips. And Dean would run his tongue along the inside of his brother’s teeth and Sam would slide his tongue against Dean’s, licking into his mouth. Dean would teasingly pull back and Sam would chase after his lips with a growl, and Dean would fix him with a smoldering look that promised ‘soon’. And Sam would groan and pull Dean back into him again.

No, wait. It wouldn’t be anything like that. Dean would hold off. He wouldn’t do anything until they were seated at the table, biding their time until the waitress showed. Sam would be fiddling with the salt shaker, loosening the top just in case, and Dean would be pretending to look at his menu. He doesn’t actually need it because he knows what he wants. Sam would look up at Dean, swirling his fingertips through the moisture on his water glass, and Dean would grab it out of his hands. He’d shove it off the table with a crash and then sweep his own off the edge as well. Sam would jump back and look at him like he’s lost his mind. “Jesus, Dean. What the hell was that for?” And Dean would fist his hands into the front of Sam’s jacket and yank him across the table to plant one on him. Everyone in the entire diner would be staring at them, but they wouldn’t even give a fuck. The kiss would be hot and passionate and Sam would moan into his mouth. And the edge of the table would be digging into both of their stomachs, but they wouldn’t notice. Dean would trail off to the side and leave a series of sucking kisses along Sam’s jaw and chin, and tangle a hand into his hair. Then Sam would pull back to scrape his teeth over Dean’s skin and Dean would slant his lips over his brother’s. And then again. And again. Searing and intense.

Sam flicks a sugar packet at the back of Dean’s knuckles. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean taps his ring against the side of the plastic (and unbreakable) water glass in front of him. Then he rips off the paper end of his straw and blow darts the rest of the wrapper at Sam’s face. “That.”

“Very mature,” Sam deadpans and resumes tapping at the keys of the laptop in front of him.

Dean spins his fork on the table, then shoves his menu away. “I think I’m gonna get a pie.”

Sam snorts, but doesn’t look up from his computer. “Bet you laundry for a week, you can’t eat a whole one.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Sam doesn’t know that Dean wants to press against him.  

And Sam is completely oblivious to the fact that eyesore motel wallpaper is just fueling Dean’s fire. The next room would probably have some horrendously garish pattern. Flowers probably, vomit green and headache yellow, and Sam would stand in front of it. He’d have his back to Dean, but he’d stand in front of the ugly wallpaper and he would look like a shining god in comparison. Sam would chuck his bags onto the floor next to his bed and he’d sigh. He’d place his hands over the tawdry swirl of colors and his bronze skin would gleam, then he’d sigh again and say, “We need to do something about this.” 

And Dean would slide up behind him and slip his hands under Sam’s shirt and over his belly and say, “Do something about what?” 

Sam would shudder, his muscles would twitch under Dean’s hands, and he’d say, “This. Us.” He’d thunk his forehead against the hideous floral design and whisper, “ _This_.”

Then Dean would tighten his arms and close the distance between them until he was finally pressed against Sam fully, head to toe. He’d drive his hips up and cling to Sam’s shoulders, locking them together as he ground his dick into his brother. Sam’s back would be rigid, he’d be straining not to buck forward, away from Dean. And Dean would bring a hand around for Sam to thrust into as well.

He’d rut against his brother’s ass, grinding against the firm expanse of Sam’s body, as Sam stuttered his hips forward into Dean’s cupped palm. And Sam would be so close. He’d start making these small, breathy noises, restless and impatient, and he’d start mumbling to himself. He wouldn’t even be aware of what he was saying, just little fragments of truth escaping from his subconscious mind. “You’re it, Dean. You’re the one. You’re it.” He’d press harder, shoving himself into Dean’s loose fist. “It’s always been you.”

“We need to do something about this.”

Dean jerks his eyes away from the wallpaper, ducks not flowers, to meet his brother’s expectant stare. “What?”

Sam furrows his brow and repeats himself. “We need to do something about this.” Dean must look confused, because he elaborates. “Y’know, the deaths of the prison guards? I think we should go talk to the relatives tomorrow.”

Dean clears his throat. “Oh, right. Yeah.” He dumps his bags onto his bed and wishes their motel room were uglier. “Of course we should.” 

Sam narrows his eyes, not suspicious or cruel, just curious. “Wait, what did you think I meant?”

Dean smirks and spreads his hands. “I just figured you finally started your period.” Sam lets out an annoyed scoff and tromps into the bathroom, and Dean raises his voice so Sam can hear him through the thin walls. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Some women are just late bloomers.”

Sam ducks around the doorway just long enough to lob a bar of soap at his head. “Ha, ha. You’re hilarious. No, really. You should go on the road with that set.” 

Dean laughs and beams at his brother. “Yeah? You’ll have to come with me. I’m not sure the joke will work without the visual aid.”

Dean has to dive to the side to avoid the tube of toothpaste Sam flings at him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam doesn’t know that Dean wants to blow him. 

And Sam would never guess that Dean could totally do it. Right now. With no one else even noticing. Sam is slumped over an old historical record of the town, one of those three thousand page, handwritten logbooks filled with as much useless information as useful. Dean could slip under the table, easy as pie. There’s no one else around because they’re tucked away in one of the lesser-visited reference sections. Dean’s willing to bet that no one is even gonna stroll by this region at all for another few hours or so. 

He could duck under the sturdy oak, and no one would be able to see him past the thick chair legs, even if they were looking. He’d crawl up to rest between Sam’s legs, but he wouldn’t touch his brother at all. Leave him completely unaware of what’s about to happen. Dean would sit back on his haunches and slowly unzip the fly of Sam’s jeans. 

And Sam would jump and bang his knees against the underside of the table. “Dean,” he’d speak in a whisper because Sam would never disturb the sanctity of one of his precious libraries, “what the hell are you doing?”

And Dean would chuckle quietly and he’d whisper back, “Hey, Sammy. No big deal. I just dropped something. Nothing to worry about at all.” 

Sam’s legs would be stiff and rigid as a statue’s. He’d wait patiently for a few seconds, because Sam would actually believe that Dean was only under the table to retrieve some missing textbook or some shit, but then Dean would slide his palms over his brother’s denim-clad knees and skim over the stretch of his thighs.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice would be husky, but timid and uncertain as a virgin’s. “You dropped something?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I just dropped a book.” Dean would tug at his brother’s jeans and shorts, not removing them, just pulling enough to free Sam’s burgeoning hard-on. “Nothing to worry about at all.” He’d move in close, until his breath ghosted over his brother’s cock. “Why don’t you tell me all about the important records of Alva, Oklahoma?” 

Sam would nervously spread his knees then, desperately wanting but unsure. He’d swallow hard and Dean would be able to hear the heavy slide of a book as Sam pulled it close enough to read from. “Um…Alva was established as a land office for the Cherokee Outlet land run in 1893.” His voice would be hoarse and anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t be able to even hear the tremor running through it. “There’s plenty of bad mojo around that. There’s always Native American deaths during land rushes—” 

Dean would pick that moment to suck one of Sam’s balls into his mouth. He’d gently roll it on his tongue until he heard Sam stop speaking. Then he’d let it slip out and he’d pull back. “Go on, Sam. Indian deaths. I’m listening.” 

Sam would scrape his nails against the wood and continue, a little shakily. “It was also a POW camp for Germans in the 40s.” 

Dean would turn his attention back to Sam’s neglected sac, sucking on the other ball, then moving up to circle the tip of Sam’s dick with his tongue. 

“B-basically…it’s pretty ripe for a haunting. Lots of restless spirits around.” Sam would dig his heels into the Berber carpeting and tense his thighs as Dean took him deeper. “Could be any of ‘em. Or more— _oh God_ —more than one.”

Dean would pull off of Sam’s dick with a wet pop and grin. “Guess you’ve got a lot of research to do then.” 

Sam pushes his chair back and ducks his head to glance under the table. “Hey, man. I dropped my book near your feet. Any way you could grab it for me?”

Dean lets out an annoyed sigh, then scooches forward until he can crawl under the wood. He leans over to grab it, sitting back on his haunches and pausing between Sam’s legs so he can rap his knuckles against his brother’s kneecap. Sam’s leg kicks out with the reflex and Dean is treated to a bitchy look once he resurfaces to hand over the book.

Sam grabs the heavy tome back from him and opens it back to the correct page. “Like I was saying, there was a big German presence in Alva during the 40s. They imprisoned a lot of war criminals in the jail here, and this Anselm Werner seems like he fits the bill.”

Dean stops twirling the pencil between his fingers and gestures for Sam to continue. “Go on, Sam. Nazi deaths. I’m listening.”

“Basically he died in prison, and although the record’s vague, it definitely wasn’t of natural causes.” Sam shrugs. “One of the guards probably took out a little anger on the prisoner, it went too far, and now Werner’s getting revenge.”

Dean makes a face. “Can’t say I blame the guy. That’s probably the same thing I’d do if I ran into a Nazi fuckhead.”

Sam curtails a smile. “Well, regardless, he’s dead now and we need to put him down. The death certificate says he was cremated, but I’m willing to bet we’ll find an old uniform or something in his cell.” 

Dean grins. “Guess you didn’t have to do a lot of research this time, huh? Lucky us.” He stands up and flips Sam’s book closed with a loud thump. “Let’s go light up some Gestapo.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam doesn’t know that Dean wants to fuck him. 

And Sam doesn’t have a clue that the tea-yellow light from overhead bar lamps always stains his skin in different shades of amber. They’d step into a bar once they’d finished up the hunt, nothing like a ghost going up in flames to start off an evening of drinking. The air would be liquid like beer, it would _smell_ like beer, and the whole place would take on that dreamy quality from the dim lighting and warm alcohol haze. It would be practically deserted, not too many patrons on a Tuesday, and the bartender would have just stepped into the back room to do some inventory or something. Sam would lean over and slide out a pool cue, then rest his hip on the edge of the table while he chalked it. He wouldn’t even need to ask, he’d just lift an eyebrow and Dean would know. No hustling, not tonight. Just a brotherly game of pool. Brotherly.

Dean would let Sam break and the balls would crack into each other. It’d be a decent enough spread, and the nine and the fifteen would sink into both corner pockets. It’s thoughtful actually, because Dean _does_ prefer to be solids. But Sam would play it up like a victory, wiggling his eyebrows and strutting over to line up his next shot. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Sam. You really want to win, you’re gonna have to clear the table before I get a chance to shoot.” 

But Sam wouldn’t. He’d begin with a fairly impressive streak, but fumble at side-pocketing the ten, and Dean would run the rest of the game. He’d even make sure to jump the four in, just to see Sam roll his eyes and pretend not to smile. Dean would clear everything up to the eight, then pause. It’d be an obviously tricky shot, lot of table between him and the ball, but Dean is skilled enough to miss without making it obvious that it’s intentional. Just the slightest kiss, a little too far to the right, and the cue ball would go in for a scratch. And no one would ever be the wiser.  

Dean misses the shot. 

Sam would come up beside him then. The rest of the clientele would have left by now, no one except for them. And Sam would sidle up close, just a little too close, and whisper into Dean’s ear, his breath warm and smelling like cheap beer. “Oh, that’s too bad, Dean. Guess I win.” He’d hum and brush his fingers over the ones Dean would have clutched around his cue. “Feels like maybe I should get some kind of reward for that.”

Dean would lift his eyebrows and meet his brother’s gaze. “You think so, huh? Sammy thinks he deserves a reward for winning one measly game of pool?” 

And Sam would keep gazing into his eyes, staring up from under his bangs, and he wouldn’t flinch or shy away or nervously blink down at his feet. He’d stay with Dean, never breaking contact, even when Dean dropped his cue and walked him back against the table. He’d stumble a bit when his back hit the edge, but Dean would catch him. He’d bring his hands up to slide over Sam’s ribs and back, then lower him onto the scuffed felt.  

Dean would slowly—so slowly—undo the buttons on his brother’s shirt. One at a time. And Sam wouldn’t look away, not even for a second. Dean would flick open the fly of Sam’s jeans with a thumb, and pull the zip down. He’d curl his fingers into the rough fabric and drag them down his brother’s legs, keeping his eyes on Sam’s. Then he’d slip his fingers over Sam’s lips without a word, and they’d part, pink and wet. And Sam would lave his tongue over Dean’s digits, soaking them to the second knuckle until Dean pulled them away. 

Dean would trail his wet fingers down the underside of his brother’s cock, already straining and red, and behind Sam’s balls to circle the puckered ring of muscle there. Sam would flinch, but he’d still remain silent, smoldering like a coal until Dean relented and pushed a finger inside. And it would be hot and tight and soft, and Sam would suck in a tiny breath when Dean crooked his finger.  

Dean would bring up his left hand then, suck his fingers into his own mouth just to feel the way Sam would clench around him in arousal. He’d switch hands, pushing two fingers, then three into his brother, and he’d bring up his unoccupied thumb to rub over the pillow of Sam’s lower lip.

Sam would sweep his tongue over the pad of Dean’s finger and reach for Dean’s fly. He’d pull Dean’s cock out and line him up against the heated rim of his asshole. Then Dean would smile down at his brother. And finally, _finally_ push inside. 

There’s a loud outburst of laughter from the group of frat boys at the table behind them, and Dean is jostled as one man slides around him while trying to make his way to the crowded bar. Dean glances up to meet his brother’s eyes…and pockets the eight ball without breaking a sweat. “What’d I tell ya, Sammy? No mercy.” 

Sam smiles a little ruefully and concedes the victory. “Yeah, yeah. Guess you win.” Then he rolls his eyes and gestures his head over Dean’s shoulder. “Looks like you get a reward, too.”

She’s brunette. Dark and lean, and doing things to a cherry stem that would make a hooker blush. She’s planted at the edge of the bar in a carefully intentional _unintentional_ sprawl, and is apparently impressed enough by Dean’s victory to ‘come hither’ him like he’s a sailor on shore leave. Basically, she couldn’t be more Dean’s usual type if she tried.

Sam laughs and shoos him away. “Go on, Cruise. Why don’t you go show her the color of money?”

Dean throws on his best leer and tosses his cue at Sam’s waiting hand. “Don’t mind if I do.” Then he pauses to jam a finger at his brother’s face. “But just to be clear, I’m Paul Newman.  _You’re_ Tom Cruise.”

Sam lets out an amused scoff and rests his hip against the table while he re-chalks his cue. “Fine. Go have fun with your new friend, _Paul_.”

Dean grins and walks backwards to the bar. “Oh, you know I will. You go have fun on your crazy Scientology spaceship.” 

Sam smiles, but doesn’t break eye contact, not for a second. “I won’t wait up.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Dean doesn’t know that Sam wants to suck the gunpowder from his fingertips.  

And Dean isn’t aware that the only thing Sam can think about is licking the smoke from his brother’s skin. He’d been wrong about the ghost. It wasn’t some Nazi POW, it’d been another guard, Albert Greene, who had died during a prison riot in the 1980s and blamed the others for letting it happen. They’d picked up another death on the police scanner the next day and pieced it together. Then they’d headed over to the graveyard to finish the job. It had been easy enough to handle. Greene got a few potshots in—Dean has a reddening bump on his brow from where he smacked into the handle of his shovel, and Sam’s back is aching from where he’d scraped it on a headstone—but overall, they got off pretty clean.

But Dean’s eyes are glowing the way they do whenever he successfully burns up a spirit and the flickering firelight is casting shadows across his skin. Sam could chase them with his tongue. First he’d move close enough to slip his brother’s lighter back into his pocket, use the action as an excuse for the necessary proximity. Then he’d run his fingers through the tufts of his brother’s short hair and press his face close enough to inhale the smell of the fire and the lingering traces of ozone. Dean would stiffen for a moment, uncomfortable with the closeness, but Sam would brush his lips down over Dean’s temple, over the heated, tender skin and press a kiss to the ghost’s handiwork. Flicking his tongue out to lightly lick over the sore area until Dean forgot that anyone had ever hurt him.

Sam would trail the point of his nose down, pressing it into the hollow of his brother’s cheek, warm against his cold skin. And then he’d trace his tongue over Dean’s plush lips, not a kiss exactly, but a mapping out of his features. Dean would taste like blood and ash and those little cinnamon Altoids that he sucked on whenever he was bored or too lazy to brush his teeth. Sam would part his lips and breathe into his brother’s mouth, breathe his brother’s air. Just barely touching, not pushing anything too far.  

Dean would squeeze his eyes shut then, and try to pull away. “Sammy,” he’d say.  _Sammy._   Like it was a prayer. Like Sam was precious. Like Sam was worthy of his brother’s adoration. Like he wasn't in the same shit that Dean was, alone and broken and lost, struggling to figure out how to carry on the family business by themselves now that they’re the only family left. Now that their dad is gone and they well and truly only have each other. “Sammy,” he’d say, “you can’t.” 

But Sam would brush the pad of his thumb over the bronze charm of Dean’s amulet. He would fall to his knees on the cold ground and the wet grass would seep into the fabric of his jeans. And he’d cradle Dean’s hand in his and he’d lick over his brother’s fingertips. He’d kiss the taste of gunpowder and metal and oil off of his brother’s hands. He’d lap at Dean’s palm and suck off the rock salt and the grave dirt and the old wood from the handles of their shovels. He’d wash Dean’s hands until they were clean, literally and metaphorically. 

And Dean would fall into the dirt next to him and take Sam’s face in his hands because Dean can’t deny Sam anything. Nothing. Never. Not even this. And Sam would press a hard kiss to the side of his brother’s face and it would taste like belonging.

“Uh, can I get that back, dude?” Dean’s hand is outstretched and he twitches his fingers a couple times. Even in the dark, Sam can see they’re streaked with salt and powder burns. 

Sam stops fiddling with the lighter he’s still holding onto, and tosses it over to his brother. He steps up next to Dean, not too close, and watches the fire cast shadows over both of them. “You smell like smoke and ozone.”

Dean laughs and his eyes crinkle. “That’s what happens when you fight a ghost, Sammy.” _Sammy,_  he says. Like a prayer. Dean reaches a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small metal tin. “Want an Altoid?”

Sam laughs out loud and chucks a nearby stick into the burning grave.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Molly Hatchet's "Flirtin' With Disaster"


End file.
